Emyn Arnen Yule
by sian22
Summary: As the Prince of Ithilien and his lady prepare to celebrate their first Mettarë together the past and future intertwine, like mistletoe on a branch of white hawthorn. An advent treat for Annafan. Merry Christmas my dear.
1. Chapter 1

Éowyn paused in the act of tying a bow about the package laid upon her bed, unloosed its white shining ribbon and reached into the silver silk. Unable to resist unfurling the fabric once last time, she peeked at the thick volume's soft tan leather and ran her fingers over the gold lettering on the spine.

Faramir's gift had been ordered long before: the moment in fact that his favourite bookseller in the fourth had shyly offered he had a source in Norim, the new capital of the Kingdom of Harad, and surely the Steward would adore the first compendium of Haradi lore and myth to be penned at the behest of Emperor Goran? She simply could not wait to see the thrill and surprise on her husband's face, the sight of him lost in its detail and elegant illuminated plates, sitting rapt on a chair by the crackling fire. Faramir had mentioned the volume was due to be released but the booksellers did not anticipate receiving shipments until after the holiday, after Mettarë had been and gone. She was so excited by her coup there was a very real threat of impulsively showing it off in a moment of excited weakness: hence here she was wrapping it nigh a month before the holiday. Safely covered, ensconced by the mantle in the sitting room, Faramir, a man blessed with a sense of patience suited to a hunting hound, could keep an eye on it and do the waiting for them both.

Quickly she gathered the silk and tied the ribbon tight, laying it aside and picking up the present for her brother: a new ale horn. One carved from an oliphant tusk and bound in silver. It was larger than any at Meduseld and would do Éomer's kingly capacity proper justice. She hoped it would also encourage him to join the nights of song and drink that would light the whole week of Yule feasting at Edoras soon to come. Éomer had assured her he would have enough to keep him busy, that he was happy for her to spend Yule in Gondor but a sudden pang of homesickness clenched at her heart. It would be the first time that she would not be there to share the holiday with her brother and he had looked so forlorn when last they parted. She would not miss this-her first Mettarë with her new husband in their new home-for all the spice cake in Rohan's warm and homey halls. But she did feel guilty that Rohan's king would be alone, without family on the last night of the year.

Right now, the first week of Ringarë, was the time that families in the Mark would gather to make the traditional sweet and dense spice cake that was her favourite. Unlike with most of the Yule baking it was the men's responsibility to make spice cake-properly supervised of course-and Theoden had always claimed the right to fold the nuts and precious clove and nutmeg into the heavy batter to make a wish for the coming year. The idea of such simple pleasures made her pause and wonder anew what truly elaborate and overformal events Gondorians might have planned for the winter's dark.

A ball was to be held of course. There would be trays of little fussy cakes and tiny canapes of ten ingredients piled into perfect towers just waiting to topple on the unwary guest. The court ladies would wear the ridiculous slashed and gold-laced gowns, their fussy hairstyles set stiff with egg-whites to keep them from collapsing during the most vigorous of the stately formal dances. _Bema_ but she was tired of the tight and restricting corsets that were the fashion. The thought of a heavy gown and formal ball was dispiriting.

It would be nothing like the first Yule she and Faramir had spent together in Edoras, handfasted and planning a wedding, This time there would be no children wound up on sugared fruits, shrieking and running through hall. No dogs darting through the whirling couples who danced under the golden roof, waiting for a moment's inattention to filch a treat from a table groaning with sweets and winter mead. No piles of simple homemade gifts clustered below a potted fir gathered from Starkhorn's sleek, snowy slopes.

With a sigh of longing Éowyn tied a bright green ribbon around the curving parcel and realized she really should speak to Faramir about the plans for Emyn Arnen. Surely she could convince him to combine the best of both traditions. Make the holiday about both their peoples. They were to spend the night of Mettarë itself in Minas Tirith that much she knew. The Steward and the King were both expected to lead the observances but Faramir had assured her they would come back late in the evening and celebrate the new year's dawn at their own home.

She gathered up both packages and laid shears and ribbon neatly on the bureau. There was much still to be done and high time she had a word with Gwinlith, their cook. The first day of the new year should be a time for gifts and thanking all for their hard work. Of course they would have the White Company in and their families and the workers from the estate. Food would need to be ordered for a feast. A trip to Minas Tirith would also be in order and if she hurried she could get Éomer's present into the messenger's saddle-bag before searching Nera out and Gwinlith.

Striding quickly along the paneled hall it dawned on Éowyn that the normally homey space was missing something that should be there. It felt a little spare: the iron torches bare, the hangings with their summer blues too bland and colourless. Trying to decide quite why a space she loved suddenly felt so wrong the truth finally dawned. It lacked the special look and scent of Yule, the touch that made the holiday a whole month and not just a single day. Mentally she began a list. Some of the delicate but pretty glass balls in Minas Tirith could be bought to hang from the torches. They would need to gather boughs of green to scent the rooms. Cumulada leaves to drape the mantlepieces and the red berries of glossy holly to lend some welcome colour. Perhaps after lunch she and Faramir could take a walk up the slope behind the house and start gathering what they would need. He would remember where they had seen that particularly large and heavy bush.

Ithilien's Lady was so excited to share her plans by the time she reached the Prince's study that she did not knock at the closed carven door. Éowyn merely opened it and strode on through, colliding solidly with the great shining bulk of the soldier who stood before the desk. Beregond, in full armour with his helm under one arm and melting snow dripping from his cloak, grasped her arm quickly before she could fall.

"My apologies, my Lady. Are you hurt?" Brows furrowed with concern the Captain bent and retrieved the horn that had toppled in the melee. Thankfully, her grip had been steady on the book.

"Only my pride." she replied, brushing wet off her skirt. "Excuse me for intruding Captain. I can come back."

Faramir's sudden bright smile of surprise made her think twice of her offer.

"No need my love, Beregond was just finished giving his report." The soldier nodded quickly.

"I hope it is good news." Though much safer than the year before, not all was settled in Ithilien, particularly in the north. Faramir himself had led a sortie to the upper vales the month before. Her heart had been in her mouth the entire time.

"Yes my Lady. Not Orcs this time but Men. Harrying the folk resettling, taking livestock and grain. Though the harvest has been good not all are minded to work for their provision." Beregond smiled shyly and turned back to his Prince. A question lit his warm brown eyes.

Faramir laughed and made a shooing gesture. "You are as keen to see your lady as I am mine. Go. I will not keep you a second more from Alwynne's welcome. Three days might as well be three months when one is away from a happy home."

A ruddy flush crept up the older's man's face. Beregond bowed and murmured thanks to them both and strode quickly through the door. Éowyn smiled fondly at the sight of his swiftly retreating back. If she and Faramir could be half as happy as the White Company's Captain and his wife were after twenty years, three daughters and a son, she would count herself well blessed.

Faramir rose from behind his pile of jumbled papers and rolled a kink out of his neck. He had been working on inventory allocations for hours since they broke their fast. One ink stained finger pointed to a pair of chairs beside the blazing fire. "There is some mulled cider if you'd like? And honeycakes. Still warm." That last brought her husband's quirky grin. He knew how much she loved all sweets. Nera, their housekeeper, had obviously brought a mid-morning snack and suddenly the sight made Éowyn realize she was famished despite her early meal.

"Thank you." she said, sitting down and placing her packages upon a little table. She took two cakes when he offered the plate across. It paid, she had learned, to take her share with alacrity. Faramir, perpetually hungry and oblivious at times, could finish the entire plate.

"Have you given any thought to plans for Mettarë?" she asked, wincing slightly as the cider burned her tongue. It was still hot, but Faramir, as usual, chugged back a rather larger gulp with no ill effect.

"Plans?" he asked, around a second mouthful of cake. "Well of course there is the official ball and the lantern ceremony in the Citadel. That is all we are promised to."

Éowyn frowned. All? But surely there were other events, other organizing to be done? Perhaps as a Captain and with heavy responsibility for Gondor's precarious eastern front he had not lately been involved. She tried to explain again.

"I mean our plans. I know things are rather more formal in Minas Tirith than Edoras, but you must have traditions, food and lights and such that we need to do here as well?" Mettarë was all about bringing light to a dark time of the year. Surely there were special lanterns to be used and polished, special cookies or cakes, star-shaped, like the ones she had seen in the bakeries.

Faramir was shaking his dark raven head. "No, we do not celebrate outside the official rites."

Éowyn counted to three in her head and let out a steadying breath. Her normally bright husband was being particularly obtuse this morn. "You said that. But should we not begin planning for our own Yule? I know we spend the day before in the City but what of Emyn Arnen?"

"What of it?" His cultured voice was somewhat rough, coming once again from around a large piece of cake.

"But what of decorating? And celebrations here? Our family's plans." She blushed suddenly at the thought. _Our family_. The idea that they might become more than two sent a thrill of longing straight to her core.

"I hadn't thought." he admitted, brushing a few stray crumbs from off his tunic. "Whatever you like is fine."

Whatever she liked? From the blank look on Faramir's face he hadn't thought of this at all. In fact it seemed he was barely paying attention to what she said, more interested in the fare than the festivities.

Her temper flared. "But do you not care? Do you not want to share in the spirit of the season?"

"Not really." _Not really._ How could he? This was to be their celebration. Special. The start of a tradition that would continue for years to come.

Faramir must have sensed something of her discomfiture for he smiled and tried to catch her eyes His next words unfortunately only rankled more.

"I am sure servants have it all in hand."

"Servants!?" That was too much. She was not going to let their first Mettarë together in the house they had worked so hard to finish be just the work of servants. A tiny tendril of hurt now wound up into her breast, held tightly to the anger.

"But they have done nothing! No boughs, no tree or baking that I can see." Her voice rose sharply as she catalogued the grievances. "No extra lights laid out, no gifts bought, no special decorations planned. You should be ashamed no thought has been given to our own celebration!"

Faramir's handsome face darkened like a thundercloud. He was slow to anger but when he did…

"If you are going to raise your voice, my Lady it would be better to use it on the horses." He rose abruptly, threw his napkin down on the still warm, vacated seat. High on his cheek a muscle jumped. "I never expected to hear you say you are ashamed of anything in our new home."

 _Bema_. Her temper had got the better of her. Éowyn rose hastily, reached to touch his arm and apologise. "Faramir, I am sorry, I did not mean it quite like that."

"No?" His shrugged her light touch off. "Then quite how did you mean it?" From the set of his jaw and the hurt in his light grey eyes her tone and words had touched a nerve. "Lady it seems we are used to somewhat different celebrations. My father worked. There were no 'family plans' such as you describe. Boromir and I would spend the day together, ride or hunt and enjoy each other's company. I am not ashamed of the more simple time we spent together."

Tears pricked behind her eyes. She had not meant she was ashamed of him.

"Faramir I…."

Meaning to apologize once more, she gathered up her skirts and reached for the forgotten packages. He needed to add the letters before the messenger rode out at noon. In the moment that it took for her to get all in hand and start to speak Faramir was gone. He had turned on his heel and left the room.

Without even giving her a goodbye.

Éowyn stood forlornly in the cosy room and tried to figure out how a simple discussion had got to this. Their first real fight.

Damn her quick, unruly temper but damn _him_ for being touchy. Faramir should have let her speak, not bolted before she had a chance to have her say. With a sinking heart she realized this had been bound to happen. He had been not quite himself for days; more than usually distracted. She had tried to be patient with the mess and sudden silences but tired out from all the work around the estate she had been short with him. Snappish and impatient. No wonder they were both at odds.

She found herself, not for the first time, wishing her new husband would share his feelings a little more. How like a man to not say what was bothering him and her husband in particular was far too used to keeping his own counsel. Most especially when conflict was involved. She was not Denethor. She was not going to take his head off for every imagined slight. Well, she might _sound_ like it at times but always she would apologize.

Intending to not let him brood, especially this close to the holiday, Éowyn walked into the hall and out the grand front doors to the gracious curving lane. Faramir would not have forgotten about the messenger and the man was likely in the stable yard.

The winter sun bright and high in the morning sky but the air was chill. She clutched her shawl more tightly about her shoulders and rounded the side of the house, hurrying to cross the flagstones before the cold seeped through her thin house slippers. It was then she saw a faint flickering glow.

White candles, wicks trimmed short, sputtered in the little shrine they had built together.

They had not been lit when she rode Windfola earlier that morn.

 _Oh gods. Of course._ Last year, his first Mettare without his family, it had been all so very different. They had both been too caught up in the celebrations at her home, the excitement of the wedding, to be melancholy for too very long. This year, in this more familiar space Faramir would miss his brother more. And his father too, despite the fact that the former Steward had been an unpleasant and unfeeling sort.

Four. Four candles burned. One for each of his family and one for Theoden. A hard lump stuck in her throat. It was a kindness to honour her Uncle too.

She had a sudden sinking feeling she knew who had suddenly felt the need for light.


	2. Chapter 2

Nera, Emyn Arnen's unflappable, supremely organized chatelaine, was in the midst of inventory in the pantry when her excellent hearing caught the distinctive bang of a slammed wooden door. Ah. The brewing storm had finally broken. Both the Lord and Lady had seemed at odds for days and she was not surprised by the sudden squall. The faintest of raised voices could also be discerned but she ignored the sound. It was a servant's place not to notice after all.

The years had been kind to the Hurin household's most faithful servant. Tall and spare, with a plain, long face and light grey eyes that bespoke her birth in Dol Amroth's closest fief, the older woman's glossy dark hair was only a little streaked with grey. She had come to Minas Tirith as a wide-eyed girl: just sixteen when Finduilas had sent word to her father she wished for a nurse for her new baby son. Prince Adrahil had prompltly employed the most efficient of his elder daughter's young assistants.

To Nera's mind it had been a stroke of luck. Orphaned and apprenticed to Princess Ivriniel, she had had little true talent for healing beyond the ability to organize. The chance to go to the big city had been a dream and there had she discovered not just a love for children and but a real knack at getting people to do certain things. Particularly young Boromir who had been high impossible at that age. Ecthelion, the Old Steward, had been charmed by the steady, devoted young woman who, with quiet care, took on more and more responsibility for his favorite grandson as Finduilas' health declined. Despite his best efforts to set her up with this or that young guardsman, the most enduring bond she formed had been with her mistress. Nera had grieved as much as anyone when her lady died, and after, well she could have never imagined leaving the two motherless young boys.

Half of her mind was on counting jars of pear and peach when the front door slammed again. Nera winced. The sound has followed the distinctive quick stepping gait of her new mistress. Éowyn's open, blunt Rohirric ways were a tad forward for even the more open minded of the Gondorim: they took some getting used to. But more challenging perhaps for a man used to living in a household of only men was her volatility. The new Lady of Ithilien was a loving, impetuous and impatient young woman who loved her Lord beyond all reason. There was nothing Nera, a little wary and careful in her comments (she was the Prince's servant after all), would not do for her young lord. Even telling him he was badly wrong if it came to that.

"Nera?" Éowyn's rich contralto voice was thick with reined in emotion. She was upset. The older woman suspected she knew exactly what it was about.

"In here my Lady!" she called, laying down an armload of jars. As the light footsteps sounded on the stone she turned and began to bob a curtsey. When her eyes raised up at just the correct arc of her descent what she saw confirmed the worst of her well-founded fears. Éowyn's lovely, proud face was stricken. This had been something rather more than minor disagreement. And would likely take more than a few words to mend.

"Have you seen the Prince?" To her credit, the Lady of Ithilien's proud chin quivered only a tiny bit.

"No my Lady, but I did hear him leave a candlemark ago. Is there something I can help you with?"

Éowyn hesitated. Clearly she wished to speak of her hurt but the urge to be circumspect was strong. Nera gave her her most sympathetic smile. The one that calmed cooks in full tirade and dairymaids weeping over spills. Surely a shieldmaiden would not be immune.

"I do not know." The young woman began uncertainly. Her fists were twisting a hankerchief into crumpled waves that would be hard to iron out. "We seem to have had a misunderstanding."

"Perhaps you would like to tell me about it over a cup of tea." Nera was firmly of a mind there was nothing a calming cup of tea could not help at least little bit. Éowyn nodded a little hopefully and soon she was steering Ithilien's young mistress into her own private space, the study she used for keeping the accounts and official correspondence.

"Lady Éowyn..please sit. " She offered the better stuffed of the two armchairs beside the small fireplace. Éowyn lowered herself dispiritedly down and surrepticously wiped a stray tear upon on her sleeve. Nera busied herself with the teapot that stood ready on an iron brasier. The small sitting room was simple but warm, true to her own modest taste and graced with the most precious of her few possessions: a hanging woven by Finduilas. A scene of Dol Amroth's shingle beach at sunset. Éowyn looked at it distractedly for a minute. A similar but much grander piece graced the Steward's rooms in Minas Tirith.

Nera poured the spiced and sweetened brew into her best cups and passed one on, waiting patiently for her mistress to compose herself and speak. True to Éowyn's open nature she did not have to wait too very long.

"Faramir never tells me anything."

They both knew that statement was not true but its vehemence could help assuage the young woman's anger and frustration. Nera, never married but all too familiar with adjusting to new relationships in close confines, was beginning to know her mistress and everything she had seen suggested Éowyn was as quick to forgive as she was to fire. More sound than fury. The older woman let it pass.

"He is a man, my lady. Very few of them in my experience instinctively speak easily of the darker places in their hearts. Prince Imrahil perhaps, but they are trained from an early age to protect. Just what they should guard sometimes has a bit too broad a definition. What has he not spoken of?"

"Mettarë." The handkerchief had stopped it furious twisting. The Lady's busy hands were now nervously winding a stray tendril of her corn-silk hair. "Why he does not want to celebrate the season. It seems so cold. So unlike him."

Ah. Nera was afraid that was the topic. There was no one now who knew Faramir like she did. It had been a thrill to see something of the exuberant young man she knew come back, glowing, in the past sixth months. Shining like Anor come to earth under the golden rays of his beautiful new Lady. While Nera may have given her allegiance first to _him_ , the Lady Éowyn was the best thing to have happened to her Lord. She was grateful enough to stick her nose in when their happiness was at stake. But how to explain something that had its roots firmly in the past?

"My Lady it is just not quite the same for the Prince." Perhaps a gentle reminder would suffice.

"I understand this is a sad for him," Éowyn laid her teacup down a little more forcefully than she had intended. "I too have lost those I loved, my Uncle and a cousin who was as dear to me as my own brother. But it is Yule. It is fitting to raise a cup and remember with honour those who are not here, It helps to ease the heart to have merriment around. We should continue with traditions we have always known and loved. Some things have not changed."

Understanding bloomed. A most important point had clearly not been divulged. Nera took a deep and steadying breath, surprised at how the words could choke her even now. "Oh my Lady, did you not know? The Prince's lady mother died at Yule. Two days before the holiday. The Steward's family never celebrated for themselves again."

"What?" Shock and sympathy, frustration and remorse passed like a fleeting summer storm across the pretty face. "He never said." As Éowyn sighed and shook her head, the last of the annoyance also trickled out. "Sometimes I feel like there are traps set all around and I do not know when I will misstep. He is an entire council unto himself. Why would he not tell me something so important?"

"Because it is not in his nature to speak so easily of her. Both he and Lord Boromir were taught, on pain of certain reprimand, to not say her name out loud." To Nera it was almost like the elvish tradition where one did not recite the name of the deceased but for one special night of the year. Except, of course, that the Steward's family did not get even that.

"I realize it is hard to understand but Lord Denethor decreed that they should not celebrate the holiday within the palace. It is all he has ever known."

Éowyn's furrowed and frustrated brow now rose in shock. "But you cannot erase an entire holiday! The most important event of the year. Especially for children. But that is…"

"Selfish?" It was of course never a servant's place to judge but on this one subject the housekeeper would not stay entirely silent. The sharpness of Nera's tone could have easily cut glass. "Aye. But I do not believe either of Lord Denethor's sons misunderstood whom he loved the best."

"But he was five! Just a little boy. You mean there was nothing? No decorating, no special meal? No gifts?"

The older woman nodded and watched as Éowyn was clearly tried and failed to imagine what would be like. "When my parents died, on our first Yule alone my grandmother and my Uncle indulged us even more."

Oh how Nera wished the same had been true for her young lords. She had done her best to insulate both her charges from the worst depredations of a man she had come to pity more than loathe. A tiny part of her heart could also admit that Finduilas had been just as headstrong and stubborn as her lord, that they collided quite naturally, but her lady at least would have never indulged a selfish grief that way.

"Mettarë was my lady's favourite holiday. Princess Finduilas did all the decorating and planning herself." A happy sigh escaped at the memory. "Oh it was just glorious. She had an artist's eye and so much energy in those days. The colours and greenery and baubles, paper or wooden stars everywhere. Even woven ones she made herself and of course mountains of candles. It was also so beautiful."

"And then it all just stopped….?"

Nera's lips pursed into a disapproving frown. "The Steward got what the Steward wanted. She loved Mettarë. So very much you see, we even decorated her sick room in her final days."

That of course had been the problem. It reminded Denethor too painfully of the room in which his heart broke beyond repair. If Nera had known the consequence of indulging her lady so she might have thought better of it. But none of them could have guessed the Steward, petrified by grief like a some ancient tree or leaf, would become just as hard as the stone of the City he was born to rule.

Oddly she felt the need to defend what they _had_ done. "We always invited the young lords to join the private party in the kitchen, with candles and the best of the leftover food and wine." Nera blushed a little at thought of lengths they went to the keep the gathering a secret. "I, and cook and Cahil always had a gift, something small and unobtrusive, for Faramir." It was heartbreaking that even as little boy he had learned there things not to be said. Such as how a new toy had been obtained. Denethor knew of course. But it had been all important not to be heard. "Prince Adrahil always sent gifts for his grandsons and money for me to take the Prince to buy a gift for his brother."

"But surely Boromir missed it too?" Éowyn looked confused. Boromir of course was five years the elder. He would not have been too young to remember the gaiety of the years before.

"If he did he was too dutiful to say. How could he, even as a young lad, go against his father?" Nera replied, a sad smile creasing her homely face. "But Lord Boromir always had gifts for his brother and for us. He drew his stipend of course but in time he was allowed an annuity. He was, whatever his other faults, a most generous, big-hearted man."

The first day of the new year had always been spent by the brothers together, most often out of doors, or if inclement, over a game of chess or cards. Simple yes, but a welcome respite from whatever duty or demands crowded in. Nera knew that it made the coming holiday more painful than it ought for her young Lord.

"My Lady, please do not think that he does not care. He is just not used to sharing the holiday with family as you are. And I think truly he is dreading it in a way."

Her mistress's finger traced thoughtfully the pattern of twining trumpet vines upon the cooled tea cup. The bright orange bloom was native to Nera's home, grew on every low bush and rock about the shore.

"Then how to do we make a new tradition?" Éowyn asked, her earnest eyes more blue than grey in the warm firelight. "I just cannot imagine not celebrating properly again."

"Lady if I may suggest?" The bright gold head nodded quickly. "If you were to show him how special can it be I am certain he would catch your great enjoyment. You may have to lead though more than you expect."

For a long moment Nera watched her mistress bite her lip, thinking hard about her choices. It was a completely unconscious habit and one that made her look so very young and vulnerable. As if this brave, determined woman could be vulnerable to anything.

"My most special Yule happened quite by accident." Éowyn began. "Father was away on patrol, almost to the Emyn Muil, and Mother insisted we wait to decorate until he arrived. We watched day after day for their arrival and then Yule Eve came and Éomer and I went to bed terribly disappointed, expecting to have a rather quiet and unfestive morning. But when we rose we found the most wonderful surprise. It was all there. A shining tree and gifts and sweets and _him_. It was magic. As if the whole eored had been given wings by some wizard's trick. In truth he had arrived very late in the eve. He and mother stayed up half the night to have it all ready for the morn."

Éowyn put down the precious cup with finality, as if she had made up her mind and needed no more bulwark against the world. Nera saw the idea sparkle to life as it formed. "A surprise! We could make a realYule here, with food and light and a tree brought it. Have it eady for the morning, as a surprise for when he came down. Faramir would get a sense of the magic, how special it is to see something when you least expect it."

Surely no one could fail to be excited by that. The sad, pinched, and worried look had left her mistress's face. It was worth a try. Nera reached for a parchment and a quill, a surge of excitement bubbled up inside and with it the need to marshal reinforcements.

"It will not be easy keeping the plans a secret, especially from the Prince. But I think it could be done, provided no one gives the game away." She wagged a just slightly impertinent finger at her young mistress, already justly famous for hating to wait for anything.

Eowyn's merry laugh echoed in the little space as she made the Rohirric warrior's salute. "Géa, Captain… Order accepted. Shall we begin?"

* * *

excuse the typos etc...this is unbeta'd. 9 more sleeps to go. :)


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you pulling in reinforcements to suitably flay my hide?"

The Prince of Ithilien stood just inside doorway to Emyn Arnen's kitchen, frozen fingers tucked under his armpits to warm, His cheeks and nose were reddened from the cold; dark raven hair windblown. He eyed the knot of women by the large oak table a little warily. Eowyn was there. He tried to guess her mood from the set of her shoulders and her hips. She did not look too very stiff; perhaps, just perhaps he would not be sleeping in the stableblock after all.

Their plump and feisty cook Gwinlith bobbed a quick curtsey while his wife and housekeeper tossed identical guilty looks across their shoulders. Eowyn's fair skin blushed a little pinker as her nose tilted up. Gods but she was beautiful when she was annoyed.

"I would not need reinforcements just for that." Her derisive snort made Gwinlith bark a staccato laugh and cover her mouth with one floured hand. "And is it sporting to sneak up on us?"

"Perhaps not." he allowed. Belatedly, Faramir realized that if he wanted to be noticed in his own home he would need to cultivate a noisy walk. Not so easy an accomplishment when one has spent twenty years keeping one's head intact by stealth. But then again, sneaking up on people could be quite informative.

"Then am I to assume there is another reason for this conclave?" Eyebrow raised and catching each woman's gaze in turn, he tried (and failed spectacularly) to keep his tone disinterested. What else would they be discussing in quiet whispers, huddled together like nervous councillors before a vote? He may have been raised with mostly men but even the most oblivious husband could guess what an angry wife would be rounding on right then. _Him._

"In point of fact there is." One fine black eyebrow raised a little higher and he dropped his hands to his hips. Faramir could practically hear the wheels turning in his wife's agile mind, looking for some quick excuse. In this instance it was Nera who quicker off the mark.

"Forgive my Lord, I wished to know my Lady's opinion on the midday meal. The original plans did not work out."

Gwinlith sputtered in indignation, opening her mouth to protest. Menus were set days before and the suggestion that their accomplished cook could have spoiled _anything_ was tantamount to insult. Nera placed a gentle hand on the ample, barely quivering forearm. "A mistake of mine, my Lord. In the ordering. It is settled now."

Nera's perfectly correct, helpful smile was turned upon him. "Prince Faramir you look quite chilled. Could I bring you some warmed wine and soup to the sitting room?"

After a second or two of brief teeth grinding (he could not break an absurdly proud Nera from the formal title habit) the idea was tempting. His hike up through the woods behind the estate had been theraputic but his fingers had caught the nip of cold. Faramir had always found he thought best when his body was on the move: it was a fine strategy, except for when one has stormed out and forgot warm clothes. So much for Ranger training and survival skills.

"That would suit very well indeed, thank you Nera." he replied, head inclined respectfully. .

Three sets of shoulders visibly relaxed. Clearly they were not going to be more forthcoming. He decided to try his luck. Eowyn did not look quite so furious as she had scant hours before.

"My Lady, will you join me?" He held a wind-reddened hand out. Eowyn paused a moment, but then nodded and placed her hand in his. Her fingers were wonderfully warm and the thought occurred they would be welcome other places that were chilled. First things first, he reminded himself. Establishing that they would not be taking a dagger to his guts would be quite helpful.

Much relieved by the faint smile that graced her lips, he tucked Eowyn's arm through his and turned for the door. They did not get far before her delicately shod foot slipped. The snow on his boots had been melting all the while into ever wider puddles on the dark slate floor. Quickly he grabbed for her wrist and held her tight. She did not fall but her flank and hip pressed warm and soft against his side. He did not let go even as they passed the worst of the wet.

"Some ploy."

Eowyn's grumble this time was pitched low and just for him. The housekeeper's was most certainly not.

None of them failed to notice the loss of honoriffic.

"Faramir! Your winter boots are supposed to stay by the front door!"

No further mishaps were encountered on the brief journey to the front sitting room. As Faramir shook off his damp coat and threw it across a chair he mulled over how to begin. They had never fought before, not like this, and he felt nervous; tense; not sure what words to expect from her next. Eowyn settled herself beside the fire and wring the edge of her skirt that had got a little soaked. He belatedly bent down and unlaced his boots.

The delivery of the food was a welcome break and for several long minutes there was no need to acknowledge the morning's ballast. The wine settled low into his belly and began to chase the chill and worry both away. After several awkward minutes watching his wife over the rim of his soup spoon he decided a full frontal assault was the best strategy after all.

"I am an idiot."

Eowyn's loud snort was followed by a cough. A little of the soup went down the wrong way and for a longer minute she coughed hard, waving away his offer of a thump upon her back.

"If you want me to disagree I will not." The eventual tart reply was worrying; the wry smile that followed was a balm

Faramir shook his head quickly. "I did not expect you to. We can agree that I have been unhelpfully wound within myself. Can you forgive me?" He reached out and took her face in his hands, ran thumbs across her cheeks. This was the Eowyn he knew and loved. Quick to forgive so long as it was just. The light in her eyes and next quiet words made the last of the anxiety melt away.

" Yes." Her smile was hesitant. "I am prepared to apologize for my unfortunate choice of words and tone."

"And I, dear heart, for not thinking beyond myself." Suddenly he could not stand the six inches of space between them. Faramir laid aside his bowl and opened his arms, threw caution to the wind. The thrill when she nestled against his chest was made his blood pound hard.

'What I want to know is why you never said."

A feather of a kiss was dropped to the golden crown of her head and he squeezed her tight. An explanation was owed but how could he explain when he did not know himself? Two hours in the snow had not brought him any closer to the truth.

"I do not know my love. Sometimes it is just much easier not to think. I was too little to understand then and now: now the one who held the memories is gone." Would it have been worse to have a father who did not love his mother quite so much? Sometimes he wondered. Would it have been harder to have a father who was indifferent to losing her. He thought so. A least under all there was a _reason_ for Denethor's un-ending winter.

Eowyn's warm sigh caressed his neck. Her lips fluttered against his neck. They distracted but he forced himself to focus on her words. "But surely you spent some of the holidays in Dol Amroth."

Faramir nodded. "Yes, a few years. But never with Father. It always felt exotic….more like someone else's family if you understand my drift. Distinct from Minas Tirith." He stroked a hand down her soft hair, let his fingers card through the ends. It was soothing for them both.

"Uncle invited us to Dol Amroth. Perhaps we should have gone. But with all the fuss of setting the house to rights this seemed the best."

Eowyn looked quickly up. " I agree. To stay here was the right decision. I am truthfully tired. No more travelling for a while."

"I think I can promise you that." There were indeed faint dark shadows under her eyes. When had those appeared? She had worked long hours to get the garden started before the worst of the cold arrived. Taken charge of the harvest and the village supplies with equal vigor. "I am sorry love. I promise to be more forthcoming. To share more of myself." And make sure you get more rest, he thought, but kept it to himself.

"Is there any thing else you need to share with me?" This time her voice was teasing. "Hidden mistresses? Children I need to succor. Your past life of thievery?

He laughed. "Only the time I purloined oranges from a stall in the second circle market."

"Do tell."

"Nera and the merchant nearly died with laughter. I spent at least a quarter candlemark choosing the one to take." He felt her smile against his chest. The world felt right and warm again. A log on fire spat out a spark. There was no where else he wished to be: dry and sated with his gorgeous wife happy and in his arms.

"Wyn I am sorry I did react how you expected. I can learn to be excited. "

His beautiful wild shieldmaiden swiftly glanced down. Her wicked grin when she caught his gaze sent a jolt of pure fire to his loins.

"That is a skill parts of you already seem to have…"

He chuckled and pulled her mouth in for a slow, languid kiss. "How not when I have you? " His hands were finally warm as they tangled in her hair.

The carpet was thick and there was no where else they had to be.

They became lost in each other for a rather longer while.


	4. Chapter 4

doing this unbetad in an airport waiting lounge..apologies. please accept it in the spirit of the season :)

There were times in the coming days when the Lady of Ithilien was in some doubt that their plans could work. Emyn Arnen as ever was a hive of bustling activity and Faramir had the formerly welcome but now unfortunate habit of popping into the kitchen to grab a snack at uncertain times. He was always hungry. Not that he needed second breakfast hobbit-style, but his body burned food like a fire burned dry hardwood. It needed constant feeding. While Gwinlith and her assistants could move fast and hide a few trays when the need was on, the scale of the baking was hard to disguise.

So many little slip-ups had to be hastily papered over she was getting confused about what excuses had used when as the conspiracy widened in its scope. Nera had what seemed five lists to consider all at once ( _No milord just advance planning for post-Mettare inventory_ ). Beregond had hastily sent the invitations to the White company and the village ( _Notes? Oh nothing important my Lord Steward. Just new orders about laying out grain and salt for the deer_ ). Mablung and Anborn began to rearrange the hay barn for the dance ( _What are we doing? N'owt to worry you Prince Faramir. Lost a gold castar and need to get it back_ )

Gwinlith dispatched Bergil to Minas Tirith with a mammoth list for food supplies: given the press of time meat pies and game tarts could be had ready made and breads and cheese and the best winter ale. The house began to smell quite wonderful as the spice mix for mulling was assembled. Alywnne, Beregond's wife insisted that the ladies of the Company help out and so down in the village there was a new burst of activity as each family's Mettare baking expanded just a bit. Everyone had their prized recipe or tradition but somehow, as the disparate bits of each person's tradition melded into a whole, their creation by committee looked rather more sleek horse than shaggy moose. Eowyn was relieved.

The moment her vow of secrecy was tested to its limit ironically came about because Faramir suddenly got into the spirit.

He looked terribly disappointed when she tried to throw him off the scent: _No thank you love, she explained, a quiet day in the end will be fine and they should focus on arranging something more elaborate next year._

The brief flash of unease in his thoughtful, snow-cloud gaze nearly undid the last of her resolve. It would be so easy to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek; laughing happily that they would have a proper Yule morning after all. That there would be treats and cake and a tree and even shoes filled with grain laid out for the friendly goblin who brought presents to the good. She wanted so badly to let him in on the fun but she must not. Dredging up the determination that faced down a wraith she clenched her fingers tighter around her skirts and smiled and shook her head. It felt wrong to be disingenuous given the subject of their fight but it would be worth it in the end.

By the third day out she had been back and forth to the kitchen so many times Gwinlith and the whole understaff ceased to curtsey at her appearance. A country woman from Pinnath Gelin, their cook was known to affectionately terrorize the staff when her reputation for perfection on the line but had a dry witty sense of humour that came to the fore when all was happily under control. Eowyn was coming to enjoy and appreciate even more the two women in the household that she worked so close beside.

Gwinlith, with an eye for detail, was quite concerned about what typical Gondor treats to make.

"I would be very happy to make anything you think the Prince would like. It is not too late to soak some more fruit in brandy and organize _mallant._ Did Prince Faramir have a favourite treat when he was little?"

Both the cook and Eowyn turned the principal source of information

"Almond paste…" Nera answered firmly. "Shaped into little animals. Flavoured with orange and covered in chocolate from Harad. You know his love for sweets." Eowyn was relieved to see Gwinlith was nodding. She would have had no idea how to fashion them. "And bahklava from Dol Amroth. You will love it my lady. It is a pastry made with pistashios and honey, so sweet it makes your teeth almost hurt." It was a sign of their growing camaradrie that Nera felt at ease enough to tease. A sweet tooth was a feature both she and her husband shared.

Now the cook frowned uneasily. "My lady, I am not sure that I can produce to standard. I have not made it afore. 'Tis said to be tricky stuff."

"We can send to Prince Imrahil's butler in the townhouse." Nera piped up. "They always have some and I am certain he would be happy to share" Éowyn looked much relieved and the subject turned to decorating for the day.

Eadig, a rider on loan from Elfhelm's eored, had been dispatched to suss out the perfect cut on the very eve. Its lower branches would be trimmed for boughs and the housemaids tried not to giggle quite so loud at their attempts to learn the art of lace crochet. Eowyn thought the slightly wonky stars produced were just adorable.

Bit by bit more bits and pieces were hidden in back cupboards and under trays. All the place the Prince would never look. She had quite despaired of finding sufficient uninterrputed time for her own part of the baking until the next bright and crisp morning dawned. Faramir suddenly (and to her mind mysteriously) announced he was riding out to the City for the day. He would be back by dinner. Curious, but not in a position to deny the unexpected boon, she kissed him goodbye and went down to the kitchen to begin the job she loved the most: baking the cakes and breads they always had in Edoras at Yuletide.

She did not have written recipes but Cynwith, the young undercook from Harrowdale, was only to happy to help her out.

Her grandfather's Thengel Spice cake she could make blindfolded having seen it done for years. In keeping with tradition Eadig (eager to help and suspiciously laughing at Cynwith's every word) was conscripted to help out. The mammoth batch of cake batter was so stuffed with fruit and nuts the big blond rider laughed, complaining how hard it actually was to mix. Eowyn and Cwynith had to hold the bowl while Eadig and one of the underfootmen turned the giant paddle.

Once the pans of sweet and fragrant batter were in the great oven, Eadig only half jokingly declared he needed a bracing tot: just to test out the rum that would lace the cakes as they cured in the coming days. (Eowyn, noting Cynwith's blush when the Rider's hand accidentally brushed her own, filed away the observation for future care and consideration).

Next they were to make the yule-kaga: a special sweet bread for just Yule morn, for her and Faramir to share. This was the most symbolic of the dishes and the one she was most uncertain of. On the darkest night of the year the eldest daughter of the house brought light and plenty to the home: the bread made with wheat from the first threshing of the summer harvest, coiled into a ring and holding candles to light Bema's way. It was always hoped the Hunter would alight and bless the hall. Eowyn had not it made so very often and had no recipe. Gwinlith has wisely suggested she try it out before.

After the fifth effort of twisting and braiding the sweet saffron scented dough (it did smell right… like all the memories of Yule past wrapped into one rich and heavy mound) she felt close to tears. Each batch had risen but bizarrely had not cooked. Time and again the braid was raw inside.

" And when, my Lady, are they supposed to be cooked? " asked Gwinlith anxiously.

Eowyn, disgusted with herself, threw down a piece of the chewy-gooey mess and sighed. "Now..they always take half a candlemark."

"Are you sure of your proportaions?" The question was fair but the cook looked worried to broach the possibility.

Frustration and disappoitment boiled over. "Yes!" She knew what she was doing. She was not a bad cook and had made this so many times. Cynwith had too and she was just as confused as her mistress. Sympathetic looks were turned her way.

"It is not as if the Prince would notice" Nera announced, scandalously, when she had been called in to try a bite. The four conspirators giggled all at once. Faramir's rather insouciant approach to eating was the stuff of legend: the antithesis of fussy high born nobles.

In the end, all she could do was fall into bed, exhausted with trying a sixth and seventh batch. Tomorrow she was to tour the Metarre market in the City with the Queen. It would be not right but surely she could order some from one of the new Rohirric bakers on the burgeoning third circle.

She tried to remind herself it was the thought that mattered as her husband's warm and lithe body sleepily curled around her own.


	5. Chapter 5

'Excuse us-make way."

Two tall and black-liveried Guards of the Citadel strode ahead of their little cavalcade, opening a path through the choked streets of Minas Tirith. The morning sky above Mount Mindolluin was almost the same sharp, clear ice blue as the majestic summit's peak. The sun was bright and the air less chill than it had been for days: folk were in a rush. The special Mettare market ran only for two weeks and everyone seemed to be taking the opportunity to shop before the weather turned again.

The crush of the happy crowd reminded Eowyn of her own wedding day. There was the same air of festivity; the same determined happiness from everyone. The milling goodwives and traders, soldiers and nobles alike sported windblown cheeks and easy smiles. Half market and half street party; the sense of excited anticipation was infectious. There was no pushing or arguing when a foot was trod: all would get a look and were content.

Eowyn wore, of course, her winter cloak: the blue mantle with stars at hem and neck that had belonged to the last Lady of the Steward. Another exotic flower in this city of white stone. Finduilas too had been a Princess of a proud and long-lineaged people. The thought made her daughter-in-law even prouder to be seen in the lovely piece; one that was more fitting then ever for this season when they celebrated the light of Varda's stars.

Like everything the Princess of Dol Amroth had made the mantle was a work of art. Its drape and cut were perfect. It swung elegantly even though she was taller than Finduilas had been. The few shorter inches were made up by her soft kid boots. Eowyn felt beautiful in it always, although this day she felt like the bright and slightly overblown gold showiness of Anor next to Ithil's luminous and adamant glow. The Queen walked with her, arm in arm, arrayed in a rather thinner grass green cloak for even Peredhel did not feel the cold.

They had just passed a leather-worker's stall to find a gay and brightly coloured table staffed by a dark-haired, sloe-eyed, young woman from Harad. There were few takers: Gondorians shied from colours as a rule but Arwen was drawn in at once.

The merchant touched folded hands to forehead, lips and breast in the customary greeting. "Your presence does my poor wares greatest honour, your highness."

Arwen, smiled and inclined her head. "You have many lovely things mistress." She ran her long, reed-thin fingers appreciatively along a bolt of red silk gauze and lifted a corner to Eowyn's cheek.

"This would be stunning on you, dearest." The fabric was shot through with silver threads and was filmy and feather-light. It was clearly something that would hug every curve.

"Better me than Lady Andrast who wore something like it at the Harvest Ball." Eowyn remarked a little acerbically. The Lady in question had the figure of a ship's masthead. It had been a little unfortunate in the filmy stuff.

Arwen's tinkling laugh rang out. The Queen had a wonderful eye such things, her taste was exquisite, and already designs that emulated the different, distinctly elven styles she favoured, had begun to dominate the court. Unfortunately such gossamer light, straight silhouettes suited one reed thin like Arwen but looked less well on some of the ladies who tried desperately to copy their beloved queen.

Eowyn grinned at the memory, shaking her head. "I am supposed to be finding gifts for others not myself." She would never quite get over Gondorians' love for new clothes for every event. It felt wasteful. So much energy and time spent by some on a contest for attention that only did a precious few any good. Arwen too was bemused by it all. It was another of the similarities that had brought the two women close.

"That is always the way. One spies things when one is not actually looking."

Arwen bid the merchant a polite goodbye and wandered further into the heavy crowd. She was searching for gifts for her household staff. Eowyn had been already been quite successful: her basket held gloves and embroidered handkerchiefs for the maids. Now she could focus on Nera and Gwinlith.

They spent a pleasant candlemark or two strolling and enjoying the music and the festive atmosphere. They drank warmed Dol Amroth wine with sugar, cloves and cinnamon and ate little stars of sweet fried dough, piping hot from a street brasier that sent clouds of steam above the fray. Arwen urged her to try a cone of roasted chestnuts.

Their baskets began to fill and soon enough one of the guards was pressed into service carrying the overload. A flower seller presented them each with sprigs of mistletoe (and made them giggle to see the younger of their guards blush). Arwen ordered an armful of nodding hellebores. The bashful delicate blooms reminded her of her home-so green and open-so unlike the fortress that ringed them round. The sheer weight of the City weighed on them both at times and it was a relief to have a confidant; someone who, like her, was adjusting to married life and an unexpected role.

At yet another leatherworker's Eowyn made up her mind and purchased new belts for the stable lads. She turned to show her prize to her companion but Arwen was looking away, a faint frown on her normally placid face. Behind them a young woman cradled a new born babe, her husband's arm curled protectively around her waist. The little one, out for a first winter walk, was bundled snuggly in a blanket of midnight blue.

"Soon." She whispered, impulsively squeezing Arwen's hand and drawing her close. "Winter time is the season for luck in blooming, my lady. The light returns and earth's bounty slumbers, ready to awaken. So it shall be for you."

"Yavanna bless us and find you right." Arwen's grateful smile was wistful as she squeezed her hand tightly back. She had confided in Eowyn her desire to have a child right away but this was not an easy thing for elves. The younger woman wondered (but did not like to ask) what changes her mortality had wrought.

They pressed on and in lieu of a formal luncheon ate from a stall, visible for lengths and thronged by eager customers. Often she found the Gondor food too fussy, either bland creamy things or their opposite: too intense and highly spiced. This time the rice mix, so hot it burnt her tongue, was perfect: bright with tumeric and studded with small and steamed sea creatures, it was heavenly stuffed into a soft flat bread that was easy to carry as one walked. It occurred to her that Faramir would enjoy this and for moment she missed him terribly. He loved spicy food, a result of his exotic Dol Amroth blood Mablung had remarked, and it gave her hope he would like the Yuletide cake.

By the time they were nearly done the sun had dropped just below the mountain's crest. It was time to consider her other errand.

"Arwen do you mind if we go down to the third circle? There is a bakery I want to find."

"Not at all. Is there something special you want to find?"

"Yulekaga." That brought a look of puzzlement and so, of course, she had to relate the whole embarrassing dilemma as they walked through the arched gate of fifth tier and began their long way down.

The shop Eowyn sought was not difficult to find and with no little excitement the ladies and their guards stepped into the shop. It smelled wonderful and was doing a brisk business. A grey-haired, older woman was just placing a rolled loaf in her basket when she glanced back and gave a small shriek. It was not every day one just ran into the Queen.

The baker, a woman with corn-silk hair wound into braids up on her head, was indeed from her homeland. She had the broader, ever-youthful face of the women from Westfold. At the moment it was pulled into a worried, startled frown. She obviously could not decide what to do with both the Slayer of the Dwimmerlaik and the Queen of the United Realm in her shop. She looked from Arwen to Eowyn, mildly panicked and then dropped so reverent a curtsey she practically knelt upon the floor. The sister to Eomer-King was greeted first.

"West Hal, Eowyn, min hlæfdige. Welcome your Highness."

"Well met godmodder." Eowyn smiled as Arwen inclined her raven head. "Please Mistress….? "

"Hildrun," The baker offered. If anything the curtsey sank even lower. She threatened to disappear altogether behind the broad wood counter.

"We are just customers."

"Nay, you are both too kind to visit my humble shop." Arwen caught the stress on the latter adjective. She was used to the sudden anxiety of those she visited unannounced. Flawlessly and quite enthusiastically she commented on wares and enticing scents, turning down swift offers of mead or tea.

Eowyn, intent on her errand, turned to scan the shelves behind the ledge and was horrorstuck. There were no coiled braids of lacquered golden brown. Spice cakes galore stood proudly in every size and shape but no yulekaga to be seen. How could they not carry the most famous loaf of the season? It seemed impossible but then, on reflection she realized why. Each family made their own. It was traditionally the eldest daughter's job, a special rite and a woman would be ashamed to not make her own. If she could not, was too ill or too old or had new baby a the breast, some other woman in the family or a neighbour just made more. No one went without.

Arwen saw her deflated shoulders. "Mistress Hildrun I fear we have come on a fruitless errand. The Steward's Lady has need of a special Yuletide bread."

Cheeks burning in embarrassment Eowyn listened while the baker explained they had not demand, all those in the City made their own. "My lady I would be happy to bake it for you but it would not be fresh by the time it was ridden across the river and stood the night." This was true. Yukekaga dough was made the night before and set to rise and baked at first morning light. Even if she bought dough made the day before it would sit too many hours before they finally reached home.

To her complete mortification Eowyn felt sudden tears prick at the corners of her eyes. The most important part of a family's Yule and she could not provide. She felt a fool. It had been silly of her to think that she could just buy it.

The baker apologized many times as the younger woman tried to compose her face. Arwen, bless her for providing a distraction, chose a smaller cake for Aragorn to have with his tea. On another day Eowyn too might have bought some good Rohirric bread but right now none of it appealed.

Tired and dejected, she tried to stand patiently for Arwen to be done. The walk back up was going to be long and she was going home without the most important thing.

"My Lady?" The taller guardsman, alarm in his voice, grabbed suddenly at her elbow. She had swayed. She must be more tired than she thought.

"A chair please." She did not know his name but was grateful in the moment for his solid bulk.

One was brought and she felt a little better sitting down. Less like the world was thin. She should not have stayed up so late after weeks of winter sowing, harvest, tending all the ailments of the local villagers. It was hard work starting a new settlement. Easier than organizing one holiday, she thought ruefully.

The baker fussed and brought her lemon water. "My lady is too pale."

Arwen agreed. "She has been working too long for many days. Even til the last candlemark trying to get it right."

The penny dropped for Hildrun. "The yulekaga..? You were trying to make it yourself?"

Eowyn took another cautious sip of the welcome water and nodded her head. "Modder I have tried and tried. Old Queen Ferdegrun's recipe. It had never failed me yet before. But it has now. Seven times."

"But Lady Eowyn but it is very simple!"

The baker looked at her customer's woeful expression and corrected herself. "Simple once you know what is the problem. It is the wheat."

"The wheat?!" both the Queen and Steward's Lady exclaimed in unison. What would that do?

A sly smile was shot sideways at the black-haired guards. "Like everything else in Gondor the wheat is softer." The young men stiffened and Arwen bit her lip.. "Your recipe is for good Eastfold red. It is harder, strong as a stallion, flour from it rises easily. Yukekaga made with Gondor flour will never cook, not matter how many times you try."

"So I discovered."

"Wildeg!" The woman strode to a darker stair at the back of the shop. "Quick. A sack of our flour from the stores." At the sight of Eowyn beaming she bowed again. "I bring it in. It is more expensive but lasts better I have found."

She also quickly waved away Eowyn's offer to pay. "It is my pleasure, my Lady, to know that you can keep the season properly."

At her final whispered word, the young boy who had struggled up with the precious cargo presented her shyly with six white candles. The very tall, thin tapered ones made just to stand in the high double coils of the loaf.

"Oh mistress..you are too kind." It was too kind, so very thoughtful. Eowyn could hardly speak around the lump in her throat.

"You have berry jam as well?"

"I do." she nodded quickly. "Made with this summer's picking." She did and blushed at the thought. Just a few precious jars. The bounty of a lovely hike with Faramir that took rather longer than just the berrying.

Arwen, immovable when she chose, insisted on paying for the treats for Aragorn and the baker saw them to the door. Eowyn found her legs felt better now she had sat.

"Bema alight and bless your house…" The Rohir woman gave the traditional greeting of the season.

"And yours…"

They began to walk up through the circles. The crowds were even heavier. Arwen was amused at the sight they made: each with their own baskets, one guard taking up the extra and one with a great white sack across his shoulder, pushing through the throng. Fine dust from the bag had settled in a ghostly steak across the shoulder of his uniform.

Eowyn's horse was lodged in the stables of the sixth. She was eager to get back, have Bergil wrap up their finds and start the journey home. Faramir had sent three men as escort; the way was mostly safe but Ithilien could surprise even now. The Prince was cautious with his bride. They would ride back to Osgiliath and ferry across before it got too dark.

As they neared the stable Arwen excitedly clasped her arm. "This will be so wonderful. I wish I could be there to see Faramir's face…it will be a Metarre he will not soon forget."

"Nor I." She hoped so. Eowyn now felt almost giddy with relief She would make another loaf, just to be sure, but that could wait a day or two. Tonight she would rest and maybe spend a little time with her lord.

They were nearly there when Eowyn found her legs felt a little leaden again at the winding stair. Perhaps she should stay in the Steward's Palace for the night? She could send Bergil with a message that she had stayed but Cahil, their elderly chamberlain, might have a fit. He would not be prepared for guests but she really did not fancy two hours ride.

Eowyn was just about to open her mouth and ask the young lanky guard to take them the other way when world began to spin crazily. She staggered, gripping tight to the precious basket, when all sound blurred out and the cobblestones rushed up to meet her.


	6. Chapter 6

"Varan, we must stop meeting like this."

The low, bass rumbling chuckle that echoed faintly off the white stone walls was familiar and most comforting. Eowyn had drifted again for a moment and now the chiseled, saturnine face of Gondor's Master Healer swam into view. His gentle hands carefully felt her skull for lumps and bumps, turned her head carefully back and forth. Behind his shoulder, Arwen looked on anxiously while Bergil, like a young and particularly ruffled hawk, stood watch by the door.

Really this was an annoyance. She was _fine_. But against all protestations Arwen had insisted she be seen and now Eowyn (who liked being fussed over about as much as a cat liked a bath) was forced to submit gracefully to a thorough and expert examination. Even the Warden of the Houses had hovered for a while but, once reassured that the Steward's wife was not in imminent danger, had excused himself to attend to other chores.

Varan moved on to a respectful probing of her limbs and the barest of cheeky smiles.

"I live for challenge, Lady Eowyn. The chance to duel again with my most difficult, intractable patient is not one to be missed." A trace of worry appeared in his dark brown eyes. "Provided the skirmish is very brief."

"Oh I think I can promise you that."

Eowyn tried to sit up on the narrow bed but was quickly stilled by a strong hand upon her chest. Varan glowered, only half in jest, and she lay back down. They had had many 'discussions', she and the Master Healer during her time recovering from the War: she chaffing at the restrictions, he insistent that she follow Aragorn's instructions. By the end of her time in care they had become quite good friends and both thoroughly enjoyed the sport. To Eowyn's estimation she had come out the victor.

"Master, I would still feel much better if we called for Faramir…" Arwen leaned forward, her bright grey eyes clouded with concern. "And Aragorn. Eowyn went white as that sheet before fainting dead away. Is there anything seriously wrong that you can see?"

One dark eyebrow raised. "Other than a tendency to be difficult with authority?"

"Master!"

Eowyn's protest did not quite drown out the strangled snort that sounded from the direction of the door. Bergil, now the focus of his Lady's irritated glare, coughed quickly and blushed a most becoming shade red.

Varan shushed them all and quickly bent his head to listen to her chest, successfully avoiding to her mind (the coward) the outrage and the issue. He busied himself with the steadiness of her heart's beat, counting with one finger raised almost like a conductor of a band.

Arwen, who had moved to sit beside them on a straightbacked chair, was not yet satisfied.

"But she lost consciousness for no outward reason! That is always serious."

"Indeed so for Elves your Highness." the healer allowed, nodding absently and pausing for a moment to listen as he tapped lightly across her ribs and abdomen. "But there are many more reasons for a human to faint that are much more straightforward. Their constitutions are somewhat less finely tuned."

Finely tuned? Difficult? One would think he was suggesting she was some flighty unbroken foal. The nerve.

Firmly pushing Varan's hands away, Eowyn struggled up. "It was just some funny turn and is over now. Let me go and I will get on with all I have to do."

Her protest, pointedly, was ignored. She was let to sit but the Queen and healer infuriatingly carried on as if she wasn't there.

"But surely Master Varan something caused the faint? Some illness that can be treated?" Arwen had not been the student of elven and human healing that her brothers were. In her experience Elves did not faint unless they were injured or seriously ill.

"Patience your highness, I have not finished my assessment yet."

Finished? How much longer would this go on? Eowyn was quite fed up with the elementary poking and beyond embarrassed at her predicament. She just barely kept her temper on a shorter rein.

"Blessed Este I am not ill! I do not and have not felt ill. Now would you _please_ let me get up and leave this blasted House. This is a waste of your precious time and mine."

"Please?" A pair of surprised voices chimed in unison. She rolled her eyes. She was not _that_ blunt when she was riled.

Varan relented with the examination but was not finished with discussion. "Lady Eowyn I beg to differ. Although her Highness's great concern is not strictly necessary it is not _nothing_ when an otherwise hale and vigorous young woman faints without warning. You are lucky the Queen is fast _and_ strong or your head might have cracked upon the stones.

"The Queen?" Eowyn was shocked. "You caught me?!"

Arwen's concerned expression evaporated as she gave a little shrug. "I am blessed with quick reflexes and it had to be me or Hirlas would have dropped the flour."

Eowyn laughed. "Thank Bema that was saved." She meant it. She really did. It would have been awful to lose her prize from the day. Varan's snort seemed rather skeptical. She could not decide if Arwen's tinkling laugh was at his sound or her reply.

"Can you picture it, mellon-nin?" the Queen went on, mouth quirking. "Clouds of flour cascading through the street just as if Mithrandir had waved his wand."

Eowyn had to chuckle at the thought. "Either way, I am most grateful to be unhurt. And thankful. Especially to you."

Arwen returned her grateful smile. "Now Master..your thoughts?" From her insistent tone it was clear she had yet to be completely reassured.

The sheet on Eowyn's midriff was smoothed neatly back in place, as the healer stood up, tossing his neatly braided hair back across his shoulder. One thoughtful finger tapped against his chin.

"Lady Eowyn you did not hit your head and there is no sign of fever, no evident anomaly with your heart. A few more questions to be sure of my diagnosis and I will release you from this torture chamber."

"Promise?"

"Most solemnly."

The dark brown eyes appeared to hold no guile. She nodded. The sooner they were done the sooner she could go home.

"The Queen says you have complained of being tired of late?" Varan began.

"Yes..but that has been since harvest time."

"Near three months? And this is not the first time you have fainted?"

How did he know that? "No.." She had to be honest. She had jumped down from Windfola's back just the week before and world had spun crazily. Obviously her sense of self-preservation had kicked in for she came to, sitting on the ground, one hand clutched at his stirrup and Windfola patiently cropping at the grass.

"Have you headaches?"

"A few." More than usual, but that was simply stress. She had so much to do and so little time to do it.

"Have you been hungrier than is your wont?" At this line of questioning the Master suppressed a smile. Getting her and Faramir to eat after the taint of the Black Breath had been one of his prime frustrations. Meriadoc, unsurprisingly, had not suffered from that affliction.

"Perhaps a little."

"Uhummm. And have you found the smell of certain foods put you off?"

Why would he ask that? Now that Varan mentioned it Eowyn had bitten a slice of orange the other day and the sickly sweet scent had made her stomach roil. She had assumed the fruit was off.

Her answers clearly did not surprise the healer for he nodded all the while. After a moment there was a heavy pause and Varan cleared his throat. It was the sort of awkward, nervous sound Éowyn had come to associate with Gondorians asking something indelicate. His voice dropped and at a quick jerk of his head, Bergil quickly slid into the hall.

"And have your breasts been tender since your last moon flow?"

Eowyn's, hilariously, could not help a startled look down. Surely he could not be implying….

"But that was months ago!"

"How many?" Varan looked quite intent but really it meant nothing. Her cycles had not been regular for years. Other women cursed steadily and timely at the moon for which it was named. Eowyn put up with it when it bothered to appear.

"You did not answer my question my Lady."

An odd fluttering began in her chest. Panic? Hope? She wasn't sure. "Three."

"And is that long a gap usual for you?"

"Well…. not quite that long."

Varan nodded as if he understood. "It is not unsurprising Lady Eowyn for a woman of your age to have shorter gaps. Strain has its affect upon the body. Battle, illness, and all your work to set your brother's Kingdom and now the principality back on their feet can contribute." His lugubrious face spread into a wide and happy smile. "But in this instance, given the greater gap and the other symptoms may I be the first to offer you congratulations."

Eowyn was speechless. Pregnant?! She couldn't be!

Arwen looked equally surprised but more quickly found her tongue. "But she has not been sick!"

"Sickness does not happen to every woman, your Highness." Varan explained. "There is a very wide variation in human females from those who are so sick they need to stay in bed to those who have so few symptoms they are unaware they are bearing until birthing pains begin."

Not know until the birth that one was pregnant? Her mind goggled at that thought.

"Some women are rather like Elves my lady." Varan continued on. "They do not get ill when they are bearing but do have other, milder symptoms"

Arwen was amused. "And what do you know about ellith and elflingbirth?"

The healer flushed to the very roots of his dark, wavy hair. "I have done some research your Highness. Your own situation may be unique-you _are_ the only Peredhel female this side of the Sundering Seas-but as I am anticipating happy news coming to the palace I wished to be prepared."

His thoughtfulness was rewarded with Arwen's brilliant smile. "Well Master, after nigh 3000 years of experience I can tell you my physiology seems mostly Elf."

"So I had surmised." Varan walked to a nearby shelf, poured some readied hot water over a handful of herbs and stirred the tisane to thoroughly steep the leaves. A warm scent of something a little spicy permeated the close air of the room.

"Ginseng and acai." He explained as he pressed a cup into his patient's hand. "To rejuvenate you and perfectly safe in the circumstances." Eowyn took a sip…it was pleasant, not in the least bit bitter.

"When exactly was your last moonflow?" he asked when she had set the cup back on a little tray.

"Leithe. But it has never been that regular." A month or so went by without and usually Eowyn thought little of it. But did not the oldwives say that those who cycles were unsteady did not easily catch a babe? "How could it have happened so very soon?"

"The male, I believe, also plays a part." Count on the man's bone dry wit to bubble up at her expense. He had the disconcerting habit of slipping in and out of a rather forbiding professional detachment.

It fell to Arwen to ask the all important question. "When..?"

Varan's smirk pursed into a thoughtful frown. "It is obviously hard to be very certain. At the earliest before Midsummer. I expect as things progress we can tell a little better."

A child? They would have a child before Midsummer came round again. Hoping it was also sovereign for the sense of unreality that had crept in, Eowyn took another steadying sip of the tea.

Serious once more the Master Healer suggested thoughts of mid-wives and other check-ups could wait a bit. "You do know that wine or spirits are not the best for a growing babe?" he added, cautiously. It was Mettare. With parties and dinners and formal events it would all around.

She nodded quickly. It would be easy enough to water down her wine or ask for cool tea instead. Swallowing hard around a tight knot in her chest, Eowyn felt still that it did not seem possible: She had had no inkling; felt hardly any different. Every woman knew that morning (or even noon or night) sickness was the sign. It felt so unreal that she could hardly take in.

"And lots of rest and good, frequent, smaller meals." A light of amusement glinted in the healer's eyes. Clearly he considered this a coup; was quite enjoying the potential that this time she would have to listen to his advice.

Arwen took both her hands in her smaller, fine boned ones. Eowyn's were distinctly shaking. "You are blessed. This will be a Metarre to remember for you all."

 _Bema_ it would. Far more that she had thought that morn. "Arwen please do not say anything." She felt terrible having to say it to one who wished so much to be in her place but the Queen's smile was proud and just a little wistful

"I understand. You wish to tell Faramir first."

"I do" she replied, realizing exactly when he should be told,

"And I know the perfect time to do it."

.

Sorry this is taking so long. RL has intervened...2 more shorter chapters to come. As Annafan says it will be for Ukrainian Christmas.


	7. Chapter 7

By the time Faramir sat down in his study very early that Metarre morn, the household was hushed and quiet as the snowbound world outside. The setting quarter moon struck sparks of silver-gilt off every flake and beamed faintly through the windowglass. It, and the fire crackling merrily in the grate, had not been enough. He had lit a lamp from the dry tinder beside the hearth, its sudden glow briefly shadowed his handsome face, and then turned the wick down low.

Now settled, a warm pool of yellow light across the leather of his desk, he took a last swig of Gwinlith's sweet and heady mead and set his glass carefully upon the floor. Nothing would be left to chance.

His fine long fingers stroked lightly once over the cover of the precious book and then lifted carefully open the heavy front. The threads of its binding were becoming worn with age and use, the parchment a little dry, but the glorious painted plates were still bright. He turned the pages slowly, admiring their beauty and the grace of the illuminated script.

The Lay of Luthian, scribed in tengwar and penned by an artist of Edelhond, sang from every page. He had found the precious thing in a bookshop in Dol Amroth the summer of his thirteenth year and promptly lost his heart. To the book and the maiden-fair who danced, and dared, and defied death to win her love.

He had desired the book with an intensity that had been startling. Denethor had frowned, declaring it an unlikely gift for a youth but Boromir had understood. It was he who had dragged their grandfather Adrahil down the winding lower streets to secure the fine, rare tome, had beamed as a startled boy unwound the silken packet and smiled uncomplaining when Faramir followed him everywhere for weeks, retelling favourite passages from the text.

 _Oh my brother, I miss you so._ How pleased Boromir would have been to see the use it was put to now.

Eowyn might have called him oblivious at times (and justly so) but he did have skills he could put to use when moved. He _had_ noticed that the fashion trends at court had changed in the year since Arwen came to grace the City's halls. More importantly he had noticed the very slight frown of anxiety on his beautiful wife's face the last time the ladies gathered and she had worn her plain moonstone circlet for what: the fifth, sixth time that fall? He smiled. She would not make a fuss, go out of her way to procure something new but he could. The Queen set the style and the ladies of the court had hurried to follow on. Elvish designs were all the rage and he had known instantly the design to follow.

Faramir turned the pages one by one, the stiff parchment crackling louder than the fire's flames, until he found the one he sought. Indigo and ebony, dotted with brush strokes of gold: it was so very beautiful. Beren and Luthian, hands clasped with the thrill of first new love, stood with the green of Doriath all around and Ihtil's new moonlight silvering everything below.

But most important, in Luthian's shining raven hair: a circlet. Regal and elegant, a thing of stunning beauty for the most beautiful of Eru's children. Shining silver-white with the light of a silver flower's dew.

Sliding the volume carefully aside he pulled a little key from out of his pocket and unlocked a drawer low in the desk. He moved aside a heavy book and with two hands, pulled out a soft, velvet-covered case. It was dark green and quite heavy, the size of larger loaf. He placed it carefully on the desk and opened the swirled silver clasp.

The treasure nestled deep inside sparkled softly in the lamplight. Faramir knew it was an somewhat ancient style, for the book was a copy of one from Edelhond in Minas Tirith's endless archives, but still it was so very beautiful, inspired by her and the memory of a song of love that had first stirred his heart.

With just the tips of his fingers he pulled out the delicate jewel from its green silk nest. The smith in the sixth had outdone himself. A glance from the inspiration to the finished piece showed his design had been followed to the letter. Both were delicate, ethereal, distinctly elven and yet not retiring. Fearless as Luthien herself and like nothing the court would have ever had seen,

The circlet was made of silver. The fine ribbons were braided in exquisitely fluid, overlapping laths that formed the circlet's base. Fine arabesques of gleaming wire spun in and out, arching through the whole, and on each whorl, a diamond, sparkling with inner, snowy fire, rode. They shimmered and flashed, each in turn, as he turned the piece about. The ribbons came to a central point that flared down and held a larger drop: a yellow diamond. The rarest and most precious of Arda's stones, it shone with true golden fire. The perfect symbol for his love: his Eowyn, all golden without and fire in her core.

The circlet was, without a doubt, the single most costly thing he had ever bought. Speed and craftsmanship came at a price, but he had been beyond happy with the result. Surely it was not wrong to spend a little of his unexpected fortune. Especially on his wife.

With one last turn to take it in, Faramir gently nestled the jewel back in its case and turned the silver latch. Suddenly, he could not wait to see her surprise and delight in the light of morn. He smiled. From the angle of Ithil's last gentle beams that could be several hours yet for she slept late these days and their Metarre had been full of ceremony and endless dragging protocol. He would hide the case in their sitting room until the right moment to present. After they broke their fast but before the main bustle of the day began.

Lifting the velvet box carefully with both hands Faramir rose and walked slowly out into the hall. He hugged the present to his chest just like a tiny babe, afraid in his excitement to lose his grip. It was long past the fifth bell of the new day and no other occupant was up. He met no one in his slow traverse down the hall: his soft footfalls made barely any sound, and he was relieved to reach the carven double doors unchallenged.

With one hand free Faramir pushed open the left hand door and stepped inside. It was pitch dark. The heavy curtains were drawn against the cold and his eyes had not adjusted to the dim. Not wanting to fumble with the hiding spot, and by long habit not wishing to waste fuel, Faramir set the casket safely down upon a plush settee he felt beside and walked quickly back to get the lamp. He turned up the wick. The sitting room was rather larger and he needed to see well.

Finally he would complete his task and make his way back to bed. This morning he would not rise and stay working until Eowyn was awake. This morning he wanted his treasure, his golden beauty, to stir, brushed by soft kisses, warm and pliant with fading dreams within his arms.

Flushed with anticipation and holding the bright light up before him, Faramir, pushed through the half open door again.

This time, with the lamp's high glow glancing off hearth and wall and floor, he could not quite believe his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

Here then..the final chapter. It is a theraputic dose of fluff...Anna has been sick and is in need of something sweet to perk her up. You have been warned..this is unabashedly tooth-rotting. :)

* * *

The sight was stunning.

As if by magic, as if Mithrandir had waved his wand, had conjured up the perfect image for that day, their sitting room had been transformed.

Boughs of green swaged on window frames and mantel. Pale cream candles, dozens, scattered on every surface as proud sentinels of the season. A low table set to groaning with a dizzying array of sweets. Breads and cakes and marizpan (!). Nuts and oranges and the scent of spice heavy in the air. And over all: the tree. The huge fir filled a whole corner by the fire and lent its sharp fresh scent to the room. It twinkled even in the dim light of the moon, flashes of white and gold shone from its boughs.

Faramir was dumbfounded.

When had she done this? It must be 'Wyn, for it was a nearly perfect copy of the King's study in Edoras, the one he had sat happily in last Mettare morn, only a little drunk on Hildreth's glogg and soundly drunk on the sight of his beautiful betrothed.

But how?

They had ridden in so late. Back from the City and the barge across, they had dismounted wearily in the forecourt: shaking the dust of snow from their cloaks, Eadig at Wyn's stirrup and Bergil his. While the big blond Rider had taken Mithros and Windfola to their own treat of oats and winter plums (the stable lads got a break on Mettare eve) the rest of the household gathered, had waited up for them and the new year.

"The One light your life and heart this year…"

After the traditional new year greeting and heartfelt but weary words of thanks Faramir had turned toward their bedroom, expecting Eowyn to follow.

She had paused. "You go on my love. I left a glove in my saddle bag. "

Bone-tired from the ceremony and emotion of the day he had simply nodded and made for their room, fallen into bed with the barest of ablutions. The strain of keeping a smile plastered onto his face had told. How many of the interminable nobles had he greeted and spoken to? How many had remarked it was an occasion, the first Metarre blessings from the new Steward, all unknowing that each smiling comment was as a lash? That it _hurt_ to be reminded neither his father or his brother were there to do the duty so rightfully theirs?

The ceremony had taken hours for more folk than usual were keen to get _this_ Steward's greeting and the King's. Only during the mid-day break had he found time to slip away. To visit the silent street and lay the winter's first shy aconite on a smaller, white marble tomb.

Once again he honoured a Mettare he could only recall in fleeting memories. Long dark hair upon a pillow; Boromir, eyes red-rimmed and the only one would take the time to play; the sea-tang of peaty whiskey that hung about his father's darkened room.

 _Sleep well naneth._ _Sleep ever well._

He had meant to keep awake until Wyn came in but all too soon sleep had stolen him: back to the twilight world of dreams.

At least, for a little while until his body roused before the dawn of a new day.

"Do you like it?"

He whirled. A sleepy looking 'Wyn stood in the doorway, glorious hair all mussed, a red silk dressing robe pulled over her thin nightgown. Her feet were bare. She had obviously been in such a hurry she had put nothing on her feet.

Hastily, he took her hands and pulled her forward onto the warm thick rug. "Like it?" How could he explain what a glorious surprise this was? "It is positively wondrous. How did you ever do it?"

A small smile stole across his wife's neat features. "Eadrig helped carry in the tree. "

"But this must have taken hours!" he exclaimed, turning again to take in all the food and boughs and colour in the room.

She nodded. "Many people helped. Nera. Gwinlith. Mablung and all the Rangers. There will be a proper party and a dance this afternoon."

"There will?" When had all this been done? And how, knowing his wife, had she ever kept is secret?

Faramir shook his head in amazement. Never mistake what a determined shieldmaiden could achieve. Belatedly, he noticed that Wyn was shivering (with the room's slight chill or fatigue he did not know) and the fire had been banked but settled low. He reluctantly let go her hand and moved the firescreen to lay on a log.

As the flames crackled up he could see the tree in better form. Someone had made ornaments of parchment and bits of gold-coloured foil. They were adorable. He thought he recognized a feadan among the shapes, and a horse of course.

"I could never have imagined such a morn."

Eowyn gave a mighty yawn. "I wanted you to have special Metarre after all."

This was not a time she was accustomed to be up, had risen early just for him. He smiled and shook his head. "You are a wonder. I do not deserve you, my love."

"Of course you do." Wyn's tone was sharp and her eyes flashed once. She would brook no maudlin thoughts this morn. "Come break your fast and I will tell all that this means."

They sat on the soft settee before the laden table and Faramir learned once again about _yulekaga_ and the lights, the prayers to say, and the symbolism of the spread. He marveled at the spice cake and exclaimed excitedly over the pink pigs and blue birds made of marzipan, dyed with berry juice and hiding behind the breads. His favourite.

His wife smiled as the little creatures vanished all at once. Obviously Nera had regaled her with the tale. That as a boy he had made himself sick gorging on the treat.

"What is the ale for?" he asked, puzzled, when he could speak again. She poured him a large measure from a silver horn. Ale at breakfast was a Rohirric tradition amongst the barracks and the village but not in Theoden's house where they also started their day with tea or kahva.

"It is good luck at Yule to bring wheat to the house." Eowyn watched him politely take a sip but did not pour a horn of her own. Was this just for men? "It is a symbol of plenty for the land but most folk bring a cask of ale instead."

Faramir laughed. Wheat but improved in form and function. "I have heard your brother say many times it is his favorite form of wheat."

He had to try then a little of everything. The special bread was wonderful. Light and sweet, redolent with saffron and the perfect crumb to hold fresh butter and the sharp-sweet jam of lindonberries. He caught Wyn's mischevious gaze as a little of the jam dripped down his chin. She smiled and leaned forward: with the barest kiss, swept the red stain away.

Of course! _That_ jam. The stains on his tunic-back from that summer day would not come out. He tried to catch her hands and keep her near but before he could catch her mouth she had pulled away. 'I have not given you your present yet." Eowyn said as she rose and reached for something nestled beneath the tree.

 _Valar.._ and in all the excitement he had forgotten his.

By the time he rose and came back with the previous box, Eowyn was back with a small green ribboned parcel on her knee. "You first."

Of course she could not wait for him to open it and laughed merrily as he hugged her in delight. How had she ever got a copy? His wife was an utter miracle…

After the previous book had been exclaimed over it was his turn. Her eyes were wide and shining with anticipation as he held out the velvet box.

"Oh Faramir!"

The cry of joy that pealed as Eowyn opened the heavy lid made his heart flutter in relief.

The diamond shone in the fire's glow and the silver gleamed, shot tiny beams of light across her face. She loved it. In fact she did not just love it: she adored it and tried the beautiful thing on at once. Soft, small fingers held his larger callused ones as he pressed it gently and carefully to her temple. It was perfect and she truly was a dream come to life.

Eyes alight with eagerness, Eowyn retrieved her little hand mirror from their bedroom and exclaimed at how gorgeous the circlet was. Faramir just grinned: so wide and steadily that he found his face muscles became a little tired once again. Perhaps he should put them to another use.

He leaned forward and touched the delicate drop with the tip of one finger, stroked it down across her cheek to tip her chin a little up.

"Blessed Metarre, my beautiful one."

Their kiss was deep; languid and dizzying and he did not want it to ever end, heart so full with joy and admiration for this woman who would do much to make a holiday for him.

After many minutes of sighs and melting kisses against the soft skin he loved behind her shell-like ear, Eowyn pulled reluctantly away.

"I have another present for you Faramir."

"Another?" Would the wonders of this day not cease? "But you have already done so much?"

"This one you do not unwrap **."**

 _You don't?_

 _Valar_ that thought went straight to his core, made his blood pound like a running eored and his skin flush more than the fire could explain.

"But I already have my present." He dropped his voice low, took on the hushed and heady tone that he knew made her wobbly in the knees. "And I already have something that needs to be unwrapped."

Bowstring-callused fingertips scribed a slow, distracting circle across her collar bone, brushed aside the silken strap of the filmy nightgown below the robe.

"Faramir!" Éowyn laughed and, flushed herself, clutched at his roving hand. "The door is not locked."

Well she had a point at that. It was early yes, but soon the whole household would be up and surely one of the maids would enter to light the fire.

"I can take care of it."

He dropped his hand, pressed a quick kiss to her hair above the circlet and made to turn the heavy key in stout doorlock. But before he could get too far Eowyn grabbed his wrist and held him fast, shaking her head just a little ruefully, sultry smile was still in place.

"Faramir...can we think of something else for just a moment?"

He paused and flashed her a wicked grin. "Hungry? You can have more sweets after you have had me."

"Faramir!"

Eowyn's tone was more than a little faintly shocked. He knew was being outrageous and forward and he did not care. Love made him giddy and he could not hold his tongue. Her brows rose up but at the sight of his sudden pout she giggled.

"The Council would never believe that my publicaly correct, polite husband ever said such a thing. We of the Mark have a saying. A Rohir thinks of swiving ten times a minute. A Gondorian thinks of swiving ten times a year. But only if there is no detail of decorum that needs to be discussed."

His sharp bark of laughter echoed in the room. Insulted? By a Rohir's sound misjudgement. Nay. Still waters ran deep after all and the pool of his ardor was wide and without bottom. He gently broke her hold to run questing hands along the sheer bright silk that clad her arms.

"I, my love? I hope by now I have showed you well and often I am an anomaly?"

"Oh yes...you are most uncommon. So I am told." she added hastily when a black eyebrow flew swiftly up. "And for which I am very, very grateful."

Despite her words of appreciation Eowyn reached once more and stilled his hands. The circlet flashed as her head rose up, pulling away from the warm lips that sought to trail kisses like butterflies across her chest.

"No love, a moment. Listen, please. There is something I need to say."

"What?"

Of its own accord his hand had raised to cup her cheek because it seemed it was the most precious thing in all the world and he must hold it dear, her dear, safe below his touch.

She took his warm fingers and lay both their hands together, over the barest swell of her stomach where it was enfolded by the sheer, warm gauze.

All at once his heart stopped in his chest. He did not need her next words to understand the joy that filled him nigh to bursting but they were so very sweet all the same.

"There is a reason we need to set tradition for our home. We will need to begin with our new family as we will go on."

Really?! Truly?! "You are with child?!"

Eowyn was nodding at his shocked and sudden grin, looking as amazed and thrilled as he. "Yes. I believe it happens to married women once in a while."

But she was not sick? Unless that too had been hidden from his sight. "Are you sure? You are going to have a babe?"

"Yes, _we_ are. I am sure _."_ She too could not quite believe it true. Hearing it said aloud was startling for them both. "And so is the midwife in the village and Varan at the Houses. I have looked at my stomach so many times last few weeks I know I can see the change."

His whoop of excitement was loud enough to wake the house.

Faramir threw his arms around her waist and spun her round, the diamond of her circlet flashing each time she swung her past the fire. His brilliant, beautiful, amazing wife with child! His clever Wyn. This was absolutely the best Metarre he could imagine. In months they would be a family….

 _Months?_ _So soon! And he was squeezing her stomach to his chest._ Faramir set her down so fast he had to throw out an arm to steady her on her feet. "When?" The breathless question came as he tucked a stray strand of bright gold hair back into place.

Her eyes gleamed bright as the jewels that graced her brow. "Before Midsummer."

 _That soon?_ "Are you well? The babe is fine? You have not been sick?" Even as he peppered her with questions realization struck. "That is why you have been so fatigued!"

And she had been hard at work for hours to make the morning his.

Faramir almost fell over himself in his haste scoop Eowyn up and carry her, protesting, to the settee. With alacrity he plumped the pillows behind her back. "You must lie down. Take it easier."

Frantically he wracked his brain, trying to dredge up what little experience he had of this unique event. The only close family he knew when pregnant had been Leylin. She had had all of Dol Amroth's large and well-populated palace jumping to her every whim, bed-bound and spectacularly, utterly and continuously sick. _Oh Gods._ The thought brought him up. The image of poor Eowyn restricted to months in bed was one he could not bear.

He put down the fourth pillow and took in his wife's clear gaze, noting the dark smudges below her eyes. She looked exhausted but she had been up so very late and risen very early.

Eowyn shook her head and chuckled so hard at his aghast and worried expression that tears threatened to spill out. She pushed his anxious hands away.

"Faramir I am _fine_. I am not sick, and other than a little tired feel entirely well. Varan says that it may even be by your birthday for they cannot be too sure right yet. Think what a marvelous day that would be."

His birthday? _Yavanna_ , praise the Lady for her blessing. It would. And she had made it possible, made them a family. It had been such a dream but one so long held back, he could hardly believe that it was real.

"Thank you."

"For what?" Eowyn's mouth quirked. "You had a hand, well not a hand, but a part, in this."

 _A part._ He wanted to laugh and cry at once, to tell her she was as outrageous as he could ever be but the words choked in his throat.

They were so very much alike. The kiss he planted lightly on her lips unlocked an unexpected set of words. "For making Metarre a holiday I will remember with such joy again."

Such few words but just the right ones to pierce a wild shieldmaiden's fierce resolve.

As her joyful tears streaked down, his thumbs, light as petals upon her cheeks, caught the tears his kisses missed.


End file.
